“So you are, your Grace,” said Strensham. “But,” he gestured to the high altar behind him, overlooked by the kneeling, painted effigy of Edward Despenser, who had fought alongside the Black Prince, “here you stand in the presence of the King of Kings. Already you have polluted His House!”
Edward shifted uncomfortably; well aware that hunting down enemies in the church was unorthodox…if necessary. And he was a pious man, for all his sins of lust and bodily pride. “Abbot Strensham, I beg forgiveness for any pollution of God’s House. I would seek to give thanks to God in this holy place for my victory today.”
“Then you must put away your weapons, and pardon those men who hide within the safety of the abbey.”
Edward’s brow grew thunderous but the red-hot lightning of his anger was beginning to fade away. Lips compressed, he said loudly, so that all could hear, “Very well, my lord Abbott…I pardon them.”
He then turned and clanked across the sullied tiles towards Hastings and me. Reaching us, he murmured in a low voice meant only for our ears, “See that the common men go free; I have no quarrel with them as long as they do not seek to raise arms against me again. However, Somerset and the other leaders …they must be taken prisoner and face the consequences of their actions.”
One of the heralds was sent to announce to the men hiding in the chantries and the tombs of the great abbey that by the orders of King Edward they could depart in peace. The common soldiers raced out of the church, hurling their weapons aside and scuttling into the streets beyond like rats abandoning a burning house…but when at last Somerset, Langstrother and the other lords emerged from their boltholes, they came moving slowly as if weighted by age and care. Their countenances were grey, resigned …they suspected there would be no real pardon for them, no forgiveness from the King. Pardons had been granted to them once before, and still they rebelled.
For most of them, their fate was sealed. Only one punishment would suffice. It was too dangerous to let them live.
Will Hastings, John Mowbray Duke of Norfolk and I, acting as High Constable of England, approached Somerset, who leaned wearily against the side of one of the tombs, his bloodied sword hanging limply from his hand.
“Put down the sword, my Lord Somerset,” I ordered. He raised his bowed head, and his hopeless, hating eyes raked over me—they were so full of despair and grief that I wondered if it was indeed true that Edward of Westminster had been his son and not merely his Prince.
“Put it down,” I commanded again, when he did not move. “It will only mean your immediate death if you do not comply.” I glanced aside at the drained faces of his comrades, the visages of living dead men. “Other lives may depend on your compliance, my Lord.”
A harsh exhalation of breath wheezed from between Somerset’s clenched teeth. Bending over, he dropped his sword with a clang, kicked it towards me. It spun across the tiles and I motioned one of my esquires to pick it up.
“Your dagger now. Be swift.”
Grimacing, he plucked the knife from his belt and threw it after the sword.
Satisfied, he was unarmed, I walked toward Somerset, still wary in case he should launch himself at me; he was much taller and broader than I.
“You are placed under arrest, Edmond Beaufort,” I said quietly, my face almost up against his. “You will answer to charges of high treason against the King.”
He seemed to shrug; he had expected nothing more. Guards surrounded him, marching him toward the door to a hastily made prison in one of the abbey granaries. Quickly and perfunctorily, we arrested and made fast the rest of the Lancastrian nobles. None fought us; it was as if the fight had gone out of them. For them the battle was over. Truly over.
There would be a trial, but there was only one way it could end.
The headman’s axe.
On the Monday, Somerset and the other enemy noblemen were brought before me, so that I, as High Constable, could pass final judgement upon them. It was a fair day, but cooler that the days preceding the battle, with clouds tumbling like white hair through the sky, bringing moments of greyness and chill as the sun was obscured. We gathered in the centre of Tewkesbury town, around a newly constructed scaffold, with townsfolk clustering in the streets and hanging from the windows of all the crowded, over-leaning houses that had escaped firing in the aftermath of the battle. Surprisingly, many cheered for us, despite the rough actions of our soldiers in their town; as we were the victors, they placed all the blame on the Lancastrian forces for bringing turmoil to their doorstep—they spat and hurled lumps of mouldy food and horse-dung at the prisoners as they were marched past, hands tied behind their backs.
I had washed and been shaved, and wore a black velvet doublet and hat; my chain of office hung about my neck, with the White Boar that is my insignia gleaming upon my breast, his eyes rubies like dollops of blood. I was pale but composed; holding this Court and sitting in judgement upon our enemies was the first duty I was to perform as the Constable of England. The Duke of Norfolk, Marshall of England, was at my side to help guide me.
I sat on a chair that had been brought for me and listened to the pleas of the captives as they were led forward, one by one. Some men said nothing or only mumbled to speak their names and titles, submitting themselves to my judgement and to God’s
I passed the sentence of death upon them.
A few other lords tried to argue their cause; claiming they fought only because they had believed Harry Six to be the rightful king. They professed they now saw the error of their ways. However, they had been pardoned once before….Edward would not trust them a second time.
They, too, were sentenced to death.
A few were lucky—Sir John Fortescue, Henry Six’s Chief Justice, was spared the axe. He possessed skills in scribery that could prove useful to the King’s just cause. Stunned by his reprieve, he was sent away from the scaffold, his legs trembling so much he could barely walk unaided. The guards had to half-carry, half-drag him; he had not expected mercy from my brother and his High Constable.
Somerset came last. The haunted look had vanished from his deep-set eyes to be replaced by contempt and hatred. He looked me up and down again, and said in a loud voice, deliberately trying to bait me, “I thought I would be adjudged today by a man. I see that Edward shames us both by allowing a boy to pass judgement on his betters.” Up above, in the half-timbered houses of Tewkesbury I could hear smothered laughter.
I ignored Somerset’s words and the foolish mirth coming from above; not one muscle moved in my face as I stood before him, legs spread apart, fearless despite my small frame. “My Lord Somerset, Edmond Beaufort, I will proclaim the charges against you…” I said in a ringing voice. “Charges of High Treason, the penalty for which is death.”
He spat at me; I had expected more from him. “Get it over with!” he growled.
I sentenced him to death.
The condemned prisoners were hauled onto the scaffold where the headsman stood waiting, black-masked and burly, leaning on his axe. Its honed edge gleamed in the wan sunlight. The townsfolk crowded around eagerly, waiting for the entertainment to begin. The din they made was awful; they were like pigs at a trough, feeding on the misery and bloodshed.
The first Lancastrian went up to the block: Hugh Courtenay from Devon. He knelt, without a word; he died as silently. One blow—that was a mercy for him. The crowd screamed and screeched excitedly. Behind them the pie-sellers and bakers had emerged from the cookshops and the air was rank with the odours of rancid meat and greasy pastry mingled with the scent of unwashed bodies and fresh blood.
My head began to hurt, and I wished the executions would soon be over, but as High Constable of England, it was my duty to my Lord King to see that all the traitors had been dispatched and their bodies prepared for burial. Edward was merciful; none of the prisoners was to be disfigured or dismembered, and the most important of the dead would be returned to their homes. There was even a lead coffin waiting for the Prior of St John’s remains, w
hich would be sent back to his priory in London.
Somerset died last. He would not look at me as he mounted the scaffold, slick with blood of his fellows. He knelt, lips moving silently in prayer. Was I sorry to see him die? No, I was not; he was a great enemy of York, he had betrayed his rightful King, and he had spoken with impertinence to me, the King’s brother.
However, a wave of relief swept over me when at last all executions were finished and the headless bodies carted away for burial or transportation. Leaving my makeshift constable’s court, I retreated to the inn where I lodged with the King. Now that my immediate duties were done, other thoughts filled my mind, causing me to fret in that awful way that afflicted me, that Dame Cecily and my sister Margaret scolded me for when I was a lad.
I was thinking of Anne Neville, made fatherless at Barnet and now a widow. She had been with Marguerite. Where was that dread Queen, hated by so many? No one had seen her on the field or in the town; some said she had remained at Gupthill Manor but had fled the moment she discovered her son had fallen. And where was she now, her only child dead, her hopes destroyed? More importantly…where was Anne?
I soon found out. Shortly after the battle, Edward’s army marched on to Coventry, acting on a rumoured rising of Neville supporters in the north. Before leaving Tewkesbury, Edward sent William Stanley in search of the old Queen (deliberately not letting me take on the task, I thought with some bitterness, but I dared not protest!) I had heard no more, but then, as I dined with the King in the Guildhall of still vaguely-hostile Lancastrian Coventry, surrounded by a gaggle of sour-faced Aldermen who were rapidly trying to douse the red roses around the door of the Hall with white paint, Ned turned suddenly in his chair and grinned at me.
“Good news has reached my ears, Richard. Marguerite of Anjou is at my command. William Stanley has located her hiding in a poor priory at Little Malvern, near Wales, and has taken her into custody.”
Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I did not wish my interest to be too obvious. With an effort, I kept my voice calm. “Good news indeed, your Grace. Did she…resist? Was she alone in her misery?”
He shook his great head, golden-brown under a white-gold circlet; with the fighting over, he clearly was asserting his status as king, wearing a purple robe broidered with his Lion and a jewelled collar of Sunnes and Roses. “No, she made no resistance; with Westminster’s death, her heart and mind were broken. Stanley says she is like an old woman, feeble and cowed. Most of her followers fled when he drew nigh; she was left alone, save for two other women widowed in the battle…Katherine Vaux and the Princess of Wales.”
The words blurted out of my mouth, despite myself. “Anne Neville…what will happen to her?”
He looked at me as if I’d gone mad, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He remembered well that before he turned his coat, Warwick had intended Anne to be my bride; Ned had forbidden it at the time, realising how over-mighty Warwick had become, but all of that had changed now. Warwick was dead…and Anne was set to be a very rich heiress.
“Well, she is the daughter of a traitor and widow of a bitter enemy…” he said slowly, and then seeing my face freeze in alarm, “but neither of these things are to be held against her. She is just a girl. I shall have sent her straight to London, to her sister Isabel, where she will be well cared for.”
My heart sank again. Isabel! I understood Ned’s reasoning, yes, the two sisters would wish to mourn their dead father together, and maybe, try to convince their mother to leave sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey, where she had fled after hearing of Warwick’s death. But putting her in Isabel’s care…that also meant she would be under the rule of George.
George! I knew, beyond any doubt, that he, with his jealous and often irrational nature, would make things difficult, for Anne…and for me.
And here he was now, strutting into the Guildhall to the accompaniment of a fanfare of trumpets. He was dressed like some popinjay in a tall, feathered green hat; with a bull made out of jet dangling off a collar so heavily encrusted with gemstones it must surely give him a crick in the neck. He must have heard our discussion, or guessed at it, for he was smiling and it was not a very pleasant smile. It was the usual smile of George when he thought he had the upper hand.
“Fear not, Richard, the traitor’s daughter will be well treated in my household,” he said. “She must be watched carefully of course—who knows, she may well be with child by Edward of Westminster. I heard he was a lusty fellow.” He stared at me, still smiling, waiting for my reaction.
I stood up suddenly, cheeks burning with embarrassment, hot as coals. I cast George the hardest, fiercest glare I could muster and bowed with bad grace to Edward. “Your Grace, I take my leave…a foul smell has permeated the air in here and my stomach is turned. I need some fresh air.”
Edward rose, grasped my arm and drew me aside. “Ignore him. You know he loves to play the fool.”
“The fool will be dancing on the tip of my dagger if he keeps it up!” I spat.
“No blood, Richard.” Ned spoke sternly. “Let it go.”
“Anne…” I said desperately. “I beg you, Ned. Where is she now?”
“She is in the city. Safe. Under guard in one of the houses near the priory.”
“Ned…may I see her? I ask you for just this one thing! Five minutes, no more!”
The King shook his head. “No, it is too soon. Let the girl rest, let us determine the best course for everyone when all fighting is over and done. She has lost her father, her mother is in sanctuary, her husband is dead…and who knows what she felt for him, eh? We do not know, Richard. Do not go disturbing her; you may not get the welcome you clearly crave, and I do not want you distracted and foolish over some girl. Hell, brother, if you need to swive a woman, go find one…Coventry is crawling with harlots tonight!”
Turning, he went back to his company of lords and the Mayor and Aldermen of Coventry. He did not glance back at me, attending instead to some sweetmeats a lackey set before him on a silvered dish. George joined him, laughing in an over-animated fashion.
Enraged, I stormed out through the main gateway of the Guildhall, passing under the carving of a sinister and pagan Green Man that seemed to leer and laugh at me….poor, foolish Richard Plantagenet shaming himself over a girl…
Cobblestones slippery and treacherous under my pointed shoes, I stalked toward my quarters at St Mary’s priory, leaping over the brimming gutters, blocked with refuse and deadly to one’s best footgear and one’s dignity. The handsome sandstone church of St Michael towered on my right, while Holy Trinity church and the priory rose over the breast of the shallow hill, their spires black against the purple evening sky. The heat we experienced on our march to Tewkesbury had abated and more usual grey springtide weather taken its place; light drizzle struck my miserable face, beaded on my eyelashes.
I knew I could not let this situation with Anne colour my feelings toward Edward; more warfare lay on the horizon, our tasks were not over and the crown was not yet firmly on Ned’s head….though soon it would be, praise Jesu.
God, but how I sometimes wished I could be like Ned, or even thoughtless George, drowning my misery in drink or burying all finer sentiments in the arms of some local strumpet. But it was not my way. Unlike many of my fellows, I sought no fleshly comfort with whores, and the women who shared my bed on occasion were respectable and pleasured me because they chose to, not because I gave them coin.
Strangely enough, as if on cue, a harlot did come sloping out of Trinity’s graveyard, stopping me by the priory wall just as I was about to bang on the gate to alert the porter. She was a foul thing in a matted red-dyed wig, her teeth missing at the sides leaving just four protruding fangs. Like a snake’s fangs—the teeth of the serpent of temptation, not that I could imagine many would have been tempted by her. She reeked of cheap wine and that was probably a mercy, for under its bitter scent, I could smell the foul, sour scent of the rest of her. “Eh, young lord, you be looking for some comfort?�
� She raised her skirts slightly, revealing a pair of hairy legs.
Normally I would have ignored the trull and proceeded on my business, but so sore was my heart, my tongue was loosened: “I would rather join the order of yonder brothers than swive the likes of you, mistress!”
I pushed on by her; she screeched furiously at me like some witchy beldame, and threw something indeterminate and reeking that she had fished from the gutter. It struck my back between the shoulder blades, squelched, ran down.
Christ, my good cloak!
“You vile, poxed bitch!” I yelled at the harlot and she scuttled away out of reach, cackling and pointing.
Angrily I pounded with both fists on the priory door, then grabbed the bell-pull and tugged until it nearly broke. The porter’s scared face appeared in the look-out, then the gate swung wide and I marched in, daring the porter or any monk to ask what ailed me.
Once in my chamber within the Abbot’s guesthouse, I tore off my sullied cloak, crumpled it up, and flung it in the corner with an angry motion. One of my squires went to retrieve it…
“Leave it!” I yelled…he jumped in surprise, for I seldom shouted at my servants in that manner. “It’s covered in shit!”
He dropped the cloak as if it burnt him…and indeed that is all it was fit for now, burning.
Moodily, I called for a jug of claret, uncaring that my head might hurt the following morn, and we might have to march north if news came of more uprisings.
To Hell with it….others drank to forget, so too would I.
CHAPTER FOUR: DEATH OF A KING
We did not have to go north. The Neville supporters had more mouth than mettle, and their proposed rebellion disintegrated. However, unrest continued in the south of the country—even as we sojourned in Coventry, Warwick’s nephew, Thomas Neville, the Bastard of Fauconberg, was assailing London. The Bastard had been floating around the English Channel for months, imagining himself as ‘Captain of the Navy of England,’ but he was naught but a pirate who preyed on unprotected craft. Now having inflamed the rowdy Kentishmen, he was baying at London’s gates, having sailed down the Thames to assault London Bridge.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree Page 7
